Pesach, Matzah, Maror: Our Story from the Inside

This coming Saturday night and Sunday night, Jews across the diaspora will gather around seder tables. In Israel, they will do so for one night. And in every corner of the world, we’ll reach again for the sacred script of our people — the Haggadah — to relive the story that lives in our bones. Different commentaries, different designs — but the same core. And I find myself wondering: What if we didn’t use them this year?

What if, instead, we placed a picture in front of each participant? One image that holds the whole story. No printed words, just the invitation: “Tell me your story.”

Would that be enough?

I ask this not flippantly, but as someone who has studied and taught the seder for years. What I’m realizing is that the story of the Exodus — the foundational story of who we are — is not trapped in the pages of any book. We carry it within us.

The Haggadah itself tells us this. Raban Gamliel teaches: “Whoever does not say Pesach, Matzah, and Maror has not fulfilled their obligation.” And so, perhaps the inverse is also true. If you do say those three — if you truly speak of Pesach, taste the Matzah, feel the sting of Maror — then you’ve entered the story. You’ve fulfilled your purpose.

I’m not suggesting you skip the rest of the seder, God forbid. But let’s take Raban Gamliel seriously. Why these three?

Pesach. The word refers to the original sacrifice, offered before we were free. Before. We ate it behind closed doors, shadows of fear still clinging to us, with the Angel of Death roaming the streets of Egypt. We were not yet redeemed — but we were told to act as if we would be. The Pesach symbol on our seder plate is not the sign of arrival. It’s the trembling faith of the precipice. Redemption is not a moment. It’s a decision to believe in a future, even when the present is still shackled.

Matzah. That first crunch — oh, how it echoes! It’s not just the taste of unleavened bread. It’s the urgency of our ancestors’ footsteps, leaving everything behind, not knowing where the next step would land. Matzah doesn’t just say, “We didn’t have time.” It whispers, “We couldn’t wait any longer.” It is holy impatience. Sacred propulsion. The world we left was unsustainable. Freedom didn’t wait until we were ready. It came suddenly, like a cry in the night.

Maror. I remember being a child, grabbing a too-big piece of raw horseradish root, trying to prove I was strong enough to really feel it. The fire that spread through my sinuses, the involuntary tears — they taught me something books never could. Maror lives in the body. It is the ache of memory. It says, “Don’t just talk about suffering — remember it, taste it, own it.” Our story is not abstract. It’s visceral. It burns, and we are not supposed to avoid that.

So why these three? Because our story is not just words. It’s food. It’s sensation. It’s survival.

Raban Gamliel lived after the Temple was destroyed. His world had shattered. And still, he taught us: Don’t forget the story. Even if all you have are three symbols, they are enough to carry you home.

And so I return to that question: If you had only a picture — no text, no guide — and I asked you to tell your story, could you? Would you say, “Here is my Egypt. Here is my Exodus. Here is my pain. And here is my hope”?

This year, like every year, the seder is both ancient and heartbreakingly current. In Israel and across the Jewish world, families are marking Pesach with empty chairs and hearts full of longing. We are praying for the return of hostages. We remember those who never made it to freedom.

There will be two Haggadot on my table this year published by the Hostages and Missing Families Forum, one from a year ago, one – this year’s – with commentary from redeemed hostages and family members of those still in bondage. This is our tradition — to add our modern experience to the margins of the eternal text. To let today’s pain become part of tomorrow’s liberation.

So friends, when we sit at our tables this year, may we remember: the seder is not just a ritual. It’s an invitation. To own our story. To embody it. To feel the fire and the crunch and the tears. And to ask ourselves: What does it really mean to be free?

We are Raban Gamliel’s students now. His voice echoes across the generations, saying: “If you didn’t speak of Pesach, Matzah, and Maror — if you didn’t eat the story, live the story, feel the story — then you don’t yet know the story.”

So let it in. The fear. The urgency. The pain. And let us walk together into the next chapter.

May we write it with clarity and courage.

May we one day say with certainty, not just Next year in Jerusalem, but This year, in wholeness.

Chag Sameach.