Passover, a Time of Song

While attending an Ishay Ribo concert at Toad’s Place in New Haven—a venue on the Yale University campus that has hosted artists like Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan, and the Rolling Stones—it dawned on me that there is something about music that has the power to unite. You can eat at home or at a restaurant, but eating in a restaurant doesn’t bond you with the other diners. Singing together, though—that brings people together.

Rabbi Yitzchak Ze’ev Soloveitchik, son of Rav Chaim of Brisk and chief rabbi of the city of Brisk, notes that while we do say Hallel on Passover, we do not make a bracha (blessing) on its recitation. Rabbi Soloveitchik wonders how it is possible that we recite a blessing on saying Hallel on so many other occasions—even on Rosh Chodesh, when the obligation is debatable—yet on Passover, when Hallel is an integral part of the Seder, we say no blessing.

He explains that there are two types of Hallel: Kriah—a reading—and Shirah—a song. The blessing we recite over Hallel on Rosh Chodesh and other holidays is “Likro et haHallel”—to read the Hallel. But on Passover, we aren’t simply reading. Our Hallel is a song—a shira—a personal outpouring of praise to God for taking us out of Egypt.

Rabbi Norman Lamm comments on this idea:

“The difference between Hallel as keriah and as shirah lies in this: keriah, or ‘reading’ the Hallel, means that we speak as outsiders to the event which occasions our praise. We thank God for something that occurred to our ancestors; we speak about others. Hallel as shirah means that we speak as insiders; we ‘sing’ God’s praises because we acknowledge Him from our own personal experience. The Hallel of keriah is historical; that of shirah is biographical. Keriah is a recounting of God’s miracles; shirah—a reliving of His providence.”

The laws of Korbanot—ritual sacrifices in Jewish law—distinguish between two types: Korban Yachid, an offering brought by an individual, and Korban Tzibur, an offering brought by the community. For example, when an individual sins, they bring a Korban Yachid. On Yom Kippur in the Beit HaMikdash, a Korban Tzibur is offered on behalf of the entire nation.

So which is the Korban Pesach? Is it a private or communal offering? It has characteristics of both. On the one hand, it is a personal obligation—each individual must bring it. On the other hand, it has communal elements: it can override Shabbat and be brought even when most of the nation is ritually impure, which is generally true only of communal sacrifices.

The Tosefta and Talmud in Pesachim recount a fascinating episode:

“This law was forgotten by the sons of Beteira, who were the leaders of their generation. The fourteenth of Nisan once occurred on Shabbat, and they did not know whether the Korban Pesach overrides Shabbat. They said: Is there anyone who knows the answer? They were told: There is a certain man in Jerusalem who came up from Babylonia—Hillel the Babylonian. He had studied with Shemaya and Avtalyon. The sons of Beteira summoned him and asked, ‘Does the Korban Pesach override Shabbat?’ Hillel responded: ‘Is there only one Korban Pesach a year that overrides Shabbat? Are there not hundreds of offerings that override Shabbat during the year?’”

They asked him, “How do you know this?”
Hillel answered: “‘At its appointed time’ is said regarding the Korban Pesach, just as it is said regarding the daily Tamid offering” (Pesachim 66a).

This event established Hillel’s authority within the Jewish people. But the question remains: Is Korban Pesach a private or public offering?

Maimonides (Rambam), in his introduction to Seder Kodashim, writes that the Korban Pesach is a Korban Yachid ke’ein shel Tzibur—an individual offering with the characteristics of a communal one. Indeed, this very ambiguity was part of the brilliance through which Hillel gained his standing among the Jewish people.

Nothing reflects this duality like the way we observe the Passover Seder today. On one hand, the obligations of the Seder are personal—to eat matzah, drink four cups, and eat maror. On the other hand, the way Jews celebrate Passover is deeply communal. We share our Seder with family and friends, attend communal meals at synagogues or hotels, and gather across distances to be with loved ones. Why? Because Passover is not just Kriah—it is Shirah. It is a re-experiencing of our birth as a nation and a community—something that must be shared.

According to Pew Research, about 70% of Jews in America attend a Passover Seder, while only 53% fast on Yom Kippur. Deep down, every Jew knows their place is around the Passover table. Why? Because Passover is a time of Shirah, not just Kriah.

Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook explains this duality in Olat Re’iyah (Vol. 1, pp. 178–179):

“The revelation of holiness that binds the general national strength of Knesset Yisrael to become truly like one person—to the extent that the individual offering of each person is considered a communal offering—this is the idea revealed on Pesach… The entire collective unites in this, not as a social aggregation of individuals who, through daily interaction, form a cohesive unit, but rather as a manifestation of a supreme unity, in which the totality of the nation, united through the sanctity of Pesach, becomes a single, unified personality in its own right.”

The power of Pesach is in reliving our creation as a people. We transform from a collection of individuals into a unified nation. It is a time of Shirah, of metamorphosis, when the Yachid becomes a Tzibur. That’s why Pesach is the anchor of our peoplehood—it transforms the individual into a communal soul and inspires us to live a life of Shirah, not just Kriah.

Reading Shir HaShirim on Pesach reminds us of this transformation from Yachid to Tzibur. Contemporary Jewish life gives us countless opportunities to live in the realm of Kriah—reading, observing, identifying. But it is only through Shirah that we bring our Judaism to life, that we awaken something deep within ourselves.

In 1976, backstage at Saturday Night Live in 30 Rock, the cast sat around when someone suddenly said, “Hey, isn’t it Pesaaaacccchhh?” They sent someone to a nearby deli, dipped a French fry in ketchup, and sang a few Passover songs. That was Jewish identity in the America of yesterday. That was Kriah.

Contrast that with Passover in Princeton, 1944. Jewish students serving in the Navy gathered to celebrate the Seder and were stunned when none other than Professor Albert Einstein began reading from the Haggadah. Einstein, aware of the discrimination and isolation Jewish students faced on campus, made it his mission to support Jewish life at Princeton. A campus survey once found that the two most talked-about figures were Adolf Hitler and Albert Einstein. Einstein didn’t let his fame deter him from engaging with his people. He helped create Jewish space at Princeton—not for performance, but for presence. That was Shirah—a deliberate, full-bodied Judaism.

This is the Shirah of today—the awakening we’ve seen over the past 18 months. This is the Judaism that lets us go through our own Exodus, from isolation to unity, from individuals to a people, from persecution to freedom.

Chag Sameach!